


more to hold, somehow

by learnthemusic



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Barebacking, Bottom Louis, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Smut, Harry's hard for Ronnie Wood, M/M, Post-The X Factor Era, Semi-Public Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:10:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2777738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/learnthemusic/pseuds/learnthemusic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Louis wants to say something about it, because this is a very compromising position and literally anyone could find them, dim lights doing nothing to hide them. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>But Harry has him by the chin and he’s bending Louis back in his effort to get at Louis’ neck, and Louis just doesn’t have it in him to stop. Every ounce of adrenaline that’s coursing through Harry’s body, it’s like he’s trying to pour it into Louis’ skin. They’ve dealt with their share of post-concert highs, but Louis has never felt Harry like this before. Almost like Harry wants to remember this moment in the way he makes Louis shudder apart, and Louis would be an idiot to deny him that pleasure.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In which Harry wants to thank Louis for the mic stand next to Ronnie Wood, and Louis just wants Harry to be happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	more to hold, somehow

_Oh the miles, the miles look how they go_   
_All the while, the while we’ve made a home_   
_And I don’t know if I could love you anymore than what I’m feeling right now_   
_Then tomorrow tends to show me there is more I can hold for you somehow_

Avalanche, Handsome and Gretyl

* * *

The sweat on Louis’ forehead is still drying when he’s ambushed deep in the annals of Wembley, pain singing through his back as a wide-eyed, crazed Harry, who’s panting so hard the air around them goes stale with his breath, shoves him into a shadowy corridor.

“Bloody hell,” Louis howls, the hand that’s been squeezing his heart for the last ten minutes tightening even more. He hadn’t expected Harry to sneak up on him and, _man_ , does it shock his system. But before he can protest Harry’s manhandling farther, his shoulders are pushed so they crack into the wall and a hot mouth seals over his own.

“You are,” Harry gasps against Louis’ lips, his hands bruising on Louis’ waist in a grip so hard it’s impossible to mistake his intent, “the most wonderful man —” He thrusts his hips and Louis can confirm by feel the outline of Harry’s dick pressing into the front of Louis’ white shirt that neither of them will exit the building without some kind of release. If not for the wall, Louis would arch up on his toes and push his own crotch forward, chasing the delicious heat of them pressed together in the dark. As it is, all he can do is bite back a moan and lick up into Harry’s mouth, swallowing the rest of Harry’s sentence as he goes. 

Louis knows what he’d planned to say anyway, a throaty thanks for giving up the mic stand next to Ronnie fucking Wood, and he doesn’t need to hear it. Louis had known from the beginning that he wasn’t going to deny Harry a chance to rock out with one of his idols. It had been a no-brainer for him, so he hadn’t gone into it seeking recognition or any kind of praise. He does shit like this for Harry all the time, mindlessly and without expectation. Like staying quiet whenever Harry speaks to his father on the phone, or wearing more layers to bed so Harry won’t be covered with stacks of blankets that he’d have to kick off in the middle of the night.

He’s come to find over the years that Harry’s happiness is enough for him, that being the source of it makes Louis feel higher than any of the moments he’s received things in return. It had vibrated through Louis and clutched at his chest when Harry took that spot beside Ronnie. Watching Harry’s eyes fill with mirth and adoration when the older man focused all his attention on him was priceless. If he could frame a video loop of the performance, of Harry going to his knees and jamming with a Rolling Stone, he would put it on the mantle in their lounge for all their guests to see. Because Harry in his element like that, freer and easier than he’s ever been on a stage, is something everyone should witness. 

For someone like Louis, whose only example originates from a mum fighting for a love that would never sacrifice as much as she did, placing another’s joy and comfort over his own should be way more complex. He should be kicking at the norm, refusing it for fear that it will come back and bite him. But Harry is _Harry_ and there’s no one in the world he wants to see happier. He really doesn’t need much else, and Louis has told him countless times by now, he’s sure of it. 

But here they are, Harry sucking on Louis’ tongue and massaging the skin beneath Louis’ t-shirt in an empty Wembley corridor that anyone could stumble upon, and Louis cannot catch his breath for the life of him. He’s not even sure when the last time he inhaled fresh air was.

“Babe,” he mumbles, breaking away from Harry’s lips to draw a breath in the stifling heat. His head’s dizzy with it, with everything, the feel of Harry rocking into him especially. He’s suffocating in the blazer Caroline had forced him into so he would “look classier, Louis, Christ’s sake, quit your griping” and he wishes now he’d fought harder. Harry’s wearing short sleeves too, and his shirt is covered in _flamingoes_. Fewer layers would come in handy right about now and he’s going to have remind Caroline of that later. 

Harry grunts a “what” in the half inch of space between them and yanks Louis even closer, leaving barely enough room for Louis’ chest to expand on inhales. The prospect thrills and frightens Louis all at once, because there’s not a single cupboard that Louis can see around the outline of Harry’s head, just wide open space and so many possibilities for interruption. He wants to say something about it, because this is a very compromising position and literally _anyone_ could find them, dim lights doing nothing to hide them. 

But Harry has him by the chin and he’s bending Louis back in his effort to get at Louis’ neck, and Louis just doesn’t have it in him to stop him. Every ounce of adrenaline that’s coursing through Harry’s body, it’s like he’s trying to pour it into Louis’ skin. 

They’ve dealt with their share of post-concert highs, and their bandmates have got the mental scars to prove it, but Louis has never felt Harry like this before. Almost like Harry wants to remember this moment in the way he makes Louis shudder apart and Louis would be an idiot to deny him that pleasure.

So he does the only sensible thing his mind can come up with, and he whispers, voice so high-pitched that he’s not even sure Harry can hear it pressed against the side of his head, “We have to be quiet,” because it’s more important than ever that they’re careful. 

That’s shot to hell, though, as soon as Harry closes his teeth over the shell of Louis’ ear and slips his tongue around messily. Louis can barely suppress the whimper it pulls out of him, and when he feels Harry’s lips stretch into a smile at the sound catching in his throat, he knows it’ll be an accomplishment if they can get through this undetected. The kind of feat that deserves a trophy, maybe even a plaque for this particular corridor for its efforts in keeping them hidden.

“You’re on,” Harry growls unnecessarily, as if this is some sort of challenge, then he’s latching onto Louis’ neck as he scrambles his hands at Louis’ waistband, nails scratching against skin and metal. Louis wishes he would kiss him instead, steal away the harsh noises tumbling from his lips and put an end to the way Louis has to choke on his own spit for fear of being too loud. It’s not a competition, for fuck’s sake. It’s supposed to be a joint effort and Harry isn’t helping.

Exhaling shakily, Louis tilts his head back and bumps the top of it against plaster. His back hurts at this angle and he can’t even imagine the havoc it’s wreaking on Harry’s. But the way their crotches are nestled together, Harry’s clothed erection rubbing tantalizingly over his own, is enough to numb Louis to everything that isn’t Harry’s touch on his body. 

Harry’s tongue drags along the underside of Louis’ jaw once he gets both of their flies open, the wet track mingling with the perspiration dotting up everywhere on Louis’ skin. It leaves Louis mostly breathless, oxygen stuttering about in his lungs even more frantically when Harry pushes his pants and trousers off his hips, and he snags Harry’s loose curls around his fingers in a silent plea. He probably couldn’t get the words out if he tried.

But Harry doesn’t need to hear them, Louis knows that much. And when he finds himself hoisted up, legs tight around Harry’s waist and shoulder blades rammed into the wall, Louis gives himself a second to send up a hushed prayer that Harry is just as in touch with Louis’ needs as Louis is with his.

Still, he’s gasping, even more so now that he can feel Harry’s excitement acutely in the way he trembles under Louis’ thighs and his hands scrabble for purchase on Louis’ bum. A sharp buzz shoots through Louis and he lets his neck drop forward, his forehead smacking into Harry’s with a low thump covered by their heavy breathing. 

“C’mon, Haz,” Louis hisses, his hands shaking as he smooths them down Harry’s neck and under the open v of his top. His heart is racing under Louis’ palms, syncing up perfectly with the beat that’s pounding so hard in Louis’ blood he can hardly hear over the din of it. And when he finally looks into Harry’s eyes, the shadows can’t hide how dilated Harry’s pupils have got. For God’s sake, why have they wasted so much time? Anyone could find them in this corridor — it’s close to the exit Louis had sought earlier when he needed to inhale freezing air and cool off — and it almost feels like they’re lacking urgency here. “Jesus, H, _come on_.”

Louis feels Harry groan his name more than anything else, because his mouth finally lands on Louis’, pilfering every last ounce of Louis’ breath before he spills some back in with a push of his tongue. The kiss only gets dirtier, teeth clicking together at an angle that would have stung if Louis were anything other than absolutely ravenous for all the ways Harry wants to touch him. He’ll take anything, including the unrelenting scrape of blunt fingernails and the insistent jerking of Harry’s cock against his arse cheeks. 

The air around them is heavy, clouding around their heads like smoke, and Louis is suffocating in its intensity. He almost wishes it would end, that Harry would get by with a public rutting until they could ensconce themselves in their home and fuck like no one could see them. There’s something heady, though, about being in this kind of danger, about Louis squeezes even tighter around Harry’s waist with denim-clad knees. _Shit_ , they’re almost fully clothed, but Louis doesn’t think sex has ever been hotter. 

Actually, he’s pretty sure he’s right when he finally feels one of Harry’s fingers inside him. It’s only wet with the sweat Harry must have gathered from the skin under Louis’ soaked shirt and blazer, and it burns like weed does when Louis goes too long without a spliff. He chokes on it, eyes watering as he muffles a cry in Harry’s mouth. Harry tries to soothe him with his tongue, stroking an apology over the roof of his mouth, but Louis just shakes his head.

“Fuck, Lou, are you —”

“Fuck me, Harold, _come on_ ,” Louis groans again, and he hopes it’s the last time. If he had thought about the possibility of Harry wanting him as soon as they got offstage, he would have at least snuck a pack of lube inside his pockets, stylists be damned. It’s the kind of foresight he doesn’t think he’ll ever master, not when it comes to Harry — _this_ Harry in particular, who’s been high for weeks on the freedom they’re slowly being granted. But they’ve been in worse situations and Louis just wants the agony of it all — the exertion, the sweat, the persistent silence — to be worth something. “I swear,” he adds, voice straining and thin because Harry’s probing inside him like he’s never been there before, “if you don’t, I will kill you.”

Harry, the bastard, actually puffs out a laugh. As much as Louis had loved watching him do the same on stage, he hates it now, more than he’s ever hated anything. He’s wound up just as tight as Harry and he needs to not be.

“Harry, goddamn it —”

“Shh,” and Harry slips another finger in roughly, the stretch of it just as bad as the first. Louis can’t help it when he scrapes his own nails on Harry’s skin and his jaw slackens around a broken whine. He tries to hide it in the crook of Harry’s shoulder, where his head is turned away from the opening at the end of the corridor and his mouth is pressed to Harry’s throat, but it’s probably too late for that. Harry tenses beneath him, every muscle strung taut and jumping with the effort of it. Louis uses the last of his coherent words on a final _please Harry do it_. 

It seems to be all Harry needs to spur him on. He adjusts his hold on Louis after removing his hand, spits into the palm and slicks his dick with it. The next thing Louis knows, he’s sliding up and down the wall, Harry more present within him than he’s ever been. Every drag of Harry’s cock lingers, the pressure so painful that Louis starts to see spots behind his pinched shut eyelids. He can feel his ragged breath puffing back at his face with every exhale Harry punches out of him and he wants to lose himself in that feeling, remember this moment by the ghost of why he fell apart so easily, not how. He doesn’t need specifics to memorize this. He just needs the image of Harry going all out on stage and Harry cornering him in a dark hallway and Harry exuding contentment with untempered adrenaline and lust.

Louis loses track of time easily as Harry finally overwhelms his senses, mewling beneath him and fucking him arrhythmically against the wall. His cock, which was once so hard it hurt to think about, now bounces red between their stomachs, the fabric of their clothes providing just enough friction for Louis to bury his hands in Harry’s matted hair and yank there instead. He lifts himself up on a thrust to catch Harry’s moan in his mouth and it tastes stale and sweaty but he wouldn’t want anything more. He pulls again when he can feel Harry’s muscles seize and his grip shudder, egging him on. 

“Louis,” Harry mumbles, pulling his lips away with so much force that the smack of it echoes around them. “So close, Lou.”

Louis just nods and reels him back in, hands framed around his jaw and pads of his thumbs rubbing along Harry’s cheekbones. His body is screaming at him, chest at war with his lungs for breath and legs revolting against his clenched muscles. His bum is sore and his shoulders have taken enough hits. But Louis doesn’t want to come until he’s sure Harry’s had his fill because he wants to be present for the way he goes boneless under him, for the way he heaves for air and holds Louis so tight that Louis can’t even feel it. 

He wants it for himself, too, but Harry’s always been more important. 

So he kisses Harry firmly through the final thrusts, stroking at his hairline and petting a hand down his wet chest. He lets a finger sneak under Harry's shirt and over a nipple, grazes his nail on the bud just so he can devour Harry’s squeak with an eager tongue. 

The only sounds surrounding them are their hastened breaths and the squelching sound of their bodies moving together. The booming of The X Factor going on somewhere they left behind long ago lies under everything else, far enough away that Louis can ignore it in favor of clenching down on Harry’s dick. When his arse protests the contraction of his muscles, he ignores that too.

Panting, “Come on, baby, come on,” Louis reaches down with one hand to ruck up their shirts as far as he can. Air rushes against his skin, cooling him off just enough to help him regain some of his footing. But it goes for naught when Harry shoves inside Louis one more time and comes, catching every one of Louis’ nerves on fire with the force of it and sending Louis toppling after him.

Louis has barely swum into consciousness when he notices Harry’s lips and hands on him, both kneading at the skin they touch. His heart is just about ready to combust and his legs and arse and back are so sore that he wants to cry. But Harry’s kissing and massaging him like he wants to put Louis back together, even after he’s slipped out of him and let him drop back to the floor, an utter mess with come sliding down the backs of his aching thighs and drying on the flat of his fluttering stomach. 

All Louis can bring himself to do is stroke absently at Harry’s biceps, fingers curling tight when a wave of _this is mine_ threatens to knock him over. Sometimes he’s in awe of everything Harry makes him feel, whether it’s in front of thousands of people or in private. There’s this huge spectrum of emotions that Louis can only be in touch with when his boy is around. Logically, it should scare him. But all it does is make Louis want to feel more, to the point where he’s bursting with it.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers, voice huskier than before, after they’ve righted themselves and cleaned up as much as they can. Harry’s got tangles in his hair and glossy eyes, a pink tinge high on his cheeks. Louis’ not much better off, sweat drenching every inch of his torso and pants uncomfortably damp. They’re about as obvious as possible, and honestly Louis doesn’t know how they weren’t caught. 

But it’s beautiful to him that he’s still the only one who has the privilege to see Harry like this. So of course he whispers back, “You don’t have to thank me,” because Harry’s given Louis so much and giving Harry the spot next to Ronnie Wood was nothing in comparison.

**Author's Note:**

> Uh...Well I hadn't planned on writing porn in this fandom yet. But I hope you liked it!


End file.
